


Never tell your sorrow

by imsfire



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Gen, Saw is a troubled soul but not a monster and not nuts, adoptive-father - daughter relationship, but not really good dad material either, child Jyn, no idea if this is Rebel Rising compliant as haven't read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24290866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: Saw has rules for the members of the cadre.  A conversation between the child Jyn and her guardian, about when and why to talk about the people you've lost.For Jyn Appreciation Week 2020, day three; prompt, Daughter.
Relationships: Jyn Erso & Saw Gerrera
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	Never tell your sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by some excellent recent meta I read about Saw and his relationship with Jyn, and partly from trying to explore a headcanon I used just in passing a couple of years ago in another fic, that Saw didn't approve of talking about the dead, unless to honour what you'd gained from knowing them.

In a just world, a world at peace, every sacrifice would be commemorated, and every life lost. In a world where people have even the bare minimum of time to honour the dead, there would be something. But the galaxy is not just, nor is it at peace. And there was nothing the child called Jyn could do about it.

She was only talking about her mother; and she looked up, into the disapproving faces of the adults, and the bafflement of the other children. It was like a wall of faces that all said _You’re doing the wrong thing_ , and she had no idea what the wrong thing even was. 

Most of them were alone in the world. Most of the kids were orphans or abandoned, just like her. Yet none of them mentioned their mamas and papas and other parents, ever. She didn’t understand it.

One of the older humans tsk’d at Jyn and hushed her, the second time she said the words “My mama –“ They took her round to the tent Saw was using as an office on that particular base, and shunted her inside. She saw the way he looked up, his expression lined in the lamplight, eyes tense and cross almost to the snapping-point, and how he disciplined his face to a determined sort of kindness when he realised it was her.

“Kid keeps talking about her mommy,” the disapproving voice said from behind her. “Doesn’t know the rules we have here.”

Saw sighed and motioned them out. “Come here, Jyn.”

Jyn shuffled forward towards his outstretched hand. She knew that being sent to Saw was usually the precursor to being in trouble. And this tone of voice, this forcedly-patient manner with her, brought back all sorts of echoes she didn’t want to have in her head. 

She thought she’d been good, she’d been trying so hard, and it was almost half a year now. 

He made himself smile; she knew he was making himself because he sighed, going into it, and although the smile reached his eyes they still looked sad. “Talking about your mother, child? Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“We were just playing.” Jyn’s feet were shuffling again. She wanted to look at them, or at the tent wall, or anywhere but back at Saw. But she didn’t dare to look away. If she pissed him off, his anger would be broken-hearted, but it would still devastate her. “I told them about a game Mama and I used to play. That’s all.”

He sighed again but said nothing. Only his eyes moved, flicking for a second up to the closed tent flap, where the person who’d brought her had gone out again. Then back to Jyn; and he waited.

She knew he was waiting for her to say more. She had to take a deep breath, very deep, for courage, but then she could say it. “Did I do something wrong? No-one ever talks about their mamas and papas, no-one ever talks about anybody who isn’t here. But everybody has families. Aren’t we allowed to care about them anymore?” A few tears pushed out, though she screwed her face up trying to stop them. “I didn’t mean to do something wrong, please, Saw, I didn’t mean it but I don’t know the rules, like Evvyec said.” And in a whisper of misery “I’m sorry I was stupid.”

“Hush, child, shh. You’re not stupid.” He started to put his hands on her arms, and for a moment she though he was going to hug her. But it was more of a bracing movement, like he’d give a soldier; Saw didn’t hug anyone, ever, not so far as she knew. And then he didn’t anyway; his hands dropped to his sides and he clenched and unclenched his fingers quickly as though they ached. “You are the daughter of Galen and Lyra. Two of the finest intellects I’ve ever met. You must never call yourself stupid.”

“But why can’t I _talk about them_?” It burst out. She clenched her own fists in reflexive horror at herself. Wiped wildly at her eyes, smearing the tears dry as fast as she could. “I remember my Mama and Papa even if nobody else remembers theirs and I _miss them_!”

“We all remember the dead,” Saw said “We remember them all the time, each of us, alone. Alone with our pain. As we always will be. As we must be. There’s no rule that we can’t ever talk about them. We speak of them when we honour what we learned from them, we speak of them when we can tell something that will serve the cause, and avenge them, and save others from their fate. But we don’t speak of them for sentiment. Their memory must give us strength, not weakness. That’s the rule we have here.”

It didn’t really help; she wasn’t sure she understood the difference. She’d learned the game from Mama, how was this not okay under the rule? “What am I allowed to say? I don’t want to be in trouble again.” She wiped her eyes dry hastily. Hoped he’d excuse her showing so much weakness, when he’d just been talking about strength.

“You can say when you learned something useful. Ask yourself _Is this a skill? Is it Intel? Can we use this to fight, and save others from what happened to my mother?_ If the answer is _No_ , then you need to learn, this is a story you don’t share. You hold your loss inside, as the other children are doing. As we all have done. Do you understand, Jyn?”

Despite herself, Jyn jumped at that. He smiled a little more, but it wasn't a good smile, and his eyes became even more sad, and perhaps a little bitter. “Child. I’m not your father. Only tell me you understand if you’re sure you do. Not just because you feel you have to, to make me feel good.”

“How do you know that – that Papa said -?” Another thing that burst out, from sheer shock. Saw winced and she cringed. 

But he didn’t get angry. His voice was still so determined to be kind. “I knew your father.”

“Papa –“

He shook his head “Say _My father_. No sentiment. Don’t say Papa or Daddy or Poppa... Don’t name him, either,” he added after a moment. “No sentiment, no personal things. Keep nothing but what you learned from them.” His eyes went past her suddenly, and hooked on something; she glanced surreptitiously and saw he was looking at the dirty old cloak thrown on his camp bed. “Don’t cry,” he said, though she had stopped. His voice had shrunk, as if it knew what he was saying was hard. “Don’t let yourself tell your sorrow. Honour what you’ve lost, honour your dead, by sharing how they made you a warrior. How they taught you strength.”

His gaze came back to Jyn. Brighter and warmer than before, and this time he did touch her. Just a palm on her shoulder, a general’s touch, commending and consoling a soldier in bad times. “These are hard things to do, but we all have to do it. Remember them, but hold it within you. Say only _My mother, my father, my sister_. Then they are everyone’s mother, father, sister. Then we fight for them all.”


End file.
